JJ
The art studio smelled like tempera paint, wet paper, and the lemon cleaner schools seemed to use on everything. Millie loved it before we made it past the front desk.
Her eyes went straight to the long tables covered in butcher paper, the drying racks, and shelves crowded with brushes. Twelve kids were already inside the classroom, talking over one another while a woman in paint-splattered overalls sorted name tags near the door.
I had found the Saturday class the night after Millie told us she was tired of being watched. The community arts center ran six-week sessions, ninety minutes every Saturday morning. Parents could wait in the lobby, leave and come back, or sit in the coffee shop across the courtyard. That last option had nearly killed Nixx when I read it aloud.
He stood bes
